Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(61)

Winter peered into the gloom. A woman crouched just inside the door, a knife held in one wavering hand. “Dear God, ’tis the devil himself!”

“Where are the children?” Winter rasped.

The woman stared around dazedly. “Children? Ain’t no children ’ere.”

Winter advanced inside as she scurried back. “I know there are children here. Where are they?”

The woman’s rheumy eyes opened wide. “ ’Ave you come to take me to ’ell?”

Winter stared at her. A couple of shapes—dead or dead drunk—lay in the corner of the tiny room, but they were obviously adult. And the woman before him didn’t seem capable of running a child work mill. “Is there anyone else here?”

She blinked, her mouth hanging half open. “Not since th’ pawnshop owner left. That were months ago now.”

Swiftly Winter went to the only door in the room and opened it. Beyond was a bare little space, the ceiling not even tall enough for a man to stand upright in it.

And it was entirely empty.

Disappointment tightened his chest. This was supposed to be the place where the children were kept. The address was the only clue he’d been able to find in d’Arque’s bedroom. If it was false, then he was lost.

The children were lost.

From without came the clatter of hooves on cobblestones.

Winter ran from the room.

Outside, a phalanx of mounted men were bearing down. Trevillion’s dragoons, holding torches high. In the flickering light, he just had time to catch sight of the sign two doors down as they galloped toward him.

On the sign was a candle.

“Halt!” the captain bellowed.

Well, he wasn’t doing that. Winter leaped, grabbing hold of the corner of the building. He began scaling it, using only his fingertips and toes. The wall exploded by his face, sending shards of brick into his mask. Belatedly, the sound of the shot rang out.

“Come down or I’ll shoot you where you are,” Trevillion called.

Winter grasped the edge of the gutter and was up and over the roof just as another shot hit the tiles by his heels. He ran, flat out, unmindful of his footing, aware that the horses were following him below. He made for the crest of the roof, bounding over it and down the other side of the house, tiles loosened by his feet clattering to the ground. The dragoons rounded the corner and galloped into the alley below. The leap across to the next house was too great; he couldn’t make it without falling, and falling meant immediate capture.

“Give it up!” Trevillion shouted. “We have you cornered.”

And indeed he could see that the dragoons were in the lane to his right as well. There were dozens this time. Why had Trevillion suddenly decided to bring out all his troops?

He had no choice now.

Winter backed two paces and began running along the roof edge, toward the house closest.

“You’ll never make it, man!”

A shot rang out and he grunted as he leaped. Too far. Too far.

Winter hit the edge of the next building, the impact sending searing pain through his chest. His arms were outstretched, his fingertips scrabbling, and then he began to fall. He slid backward, the leather of his gloves tearing on the rough shingles.

And then he caught.

Only a moment he hung, whispering thanks to God, and then he pushed up with his toes against the house wall and was up and over the edge.

Running for his life.

THE SOUND OF gunfire boomed through the night.

Isabel gasped as if she’d been hit herself. She opened the carriage door and, hanging on to the strap inside, stuck her head out of the moving vehicle. “Drive toward the gunshots, John Coachman!”

Her coachman was usually an imperturbable man, but at her words he swung around, his expression alarmed. “Are you sure, my lady?”

“Yes, yes. Just do as I say.”

Isabel shut the door again but stayed near the window, peering anxiously outside. As soon as she’d heard that the Ghost was being blamed for Mr. Fraser-Burnsby’s murder, she’d known that Winter was in dire peril. He’d left before the news of the murder and thus did not know that this night of all nights he must not go out as the Ghost.

She cocked her head, listening anxiously. The shots had been very near. If it was Winter being shot at, then he must be close. Unless the shots had hit their target…

A shadow moved in the gloom.

Her heart jolted. Isabel flung open the door even before she recognized the long-nosed mask. “Quickly! In here.”

He leaped inside the carriage without waiting for it to slow. Isabel slammed shut the door and rapped on the roof. “Home, John!”

Then she sat back on the squabs and stared across at him. His gloves were torn, but otherwise his costume was in place. He was alive. Alive, alive, alive! Thank God and all the angels and any saint that happened to be hanging about. Dear God, she was so relieved!

He took off his floppy hat and threw it on the cushions and then began removing his gloves as if he weren’t put out at all. As if she hadn’t just died a thousand deaths looking for him. And—and!—were it up to him, she wouldn’t have been looking at all because she wouldn’t have known he was the Ghost. Rage—white, hot, and clean—began boiling in her breast.

“You idiot man,” she hissed low. “Don’t you know that every soldier in London is searching for you with orders to take you dead or alive?”